


Tool (noun)

by myriadofnothing



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alternate Universe - Dark, Dark Phil Coulson, M/M, Pre-Slash, Rape, Sexual Slavery, Whumptober 2020
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-25
Updated: 2020-10-25
Packaged: 2021-03-09 04:54:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,096
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27198115
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/myriadofnothing/pseuds/myriadofnothing
Summary: In a dark alternate universe, not all SHIELD agents serve willingly.  A ficlet.
Relationships: Clint Barton/Phil Coulson
Comments: 4
Kudos: 41
Collections: Whumptober 2020





	Tool (noun)

**Author's Note:**

> No. 9—For the greater good

* * *

**tool** _(noun)_

  1. a device for a particular function
  2. a means to an end
  3. one who is manipulated by another



_"It is essential to have good tools, but it is also essential that the tools should be used in the right way."_

* * *

Coulson didn’t like the idea of conscripted agents. His men and women needed to be loyal to the cause and to each other. They needed to be driven. Twist a man’s arm to get him to do something, and he’ll do it half-assed. When the going gets tough, he’ll drag his feet. But Fury said conscripts had their uses. They were expendable. Their isolated status made them good choices for counter ops. And while they didn’t have the discipline and conformity of customary agents, most of them had been given “an offer they couldn’t refuse” and did dirty work without complaint. To Coulson, conscripts were unnecessary. There was nothing they could do that he couldn’t find a willing recruit for. Fury had told him that if he wanted Coulson’s opinion, he would ask for it, and until that day came Coulson better look at the damn files and pick one.

The candidates’ files were detailed with skills, training, and psych profiles. Other particulars were conspicuously absent. Full reports were need-to-know; it was possible that only their current handler, Fury, and maybe a watchdog qualified. There were videos, identifiable features blurred, showcasing performance in training drills. He recognized a few SHIELD facility settings, but many were nondescript. There were also videos showcasing their performance in… other areas. The back of his neck prickled as he watched bare skin twist across his monitor. He hadn’t known that sex was a part of the conscript repertoire. Plainly, that was need-to-know as well.

Coulson knew there was a file on his own inclinations somewhere, even if he hadn’t seen it. It had never come up before; he had to wonder why Fury was putting this in front of him now. He didn’t need to shit where he ate, so to speak, and satisfy his urges with his subordinates. He ran the scenarios through his head. Other handlers had conscripts; had they all successfully hidden this part from him? Or was it only put on the table for a select few? He drummed his fingers. Knowing Fury, this was a carrot, a threat, plus some other machination all wrapped into one. Or, also likely, a red herring tossed on his lap just to fuck with him. He picked up the phone, dialed, and was unsurprised when there was no answer. _Pick one_ had been Fury’s last directive; Coulson had yet to comply.

Irritatingly, he was getting warm and tight in the pants while reviewing the files. He wanted to make a cool, rational decision. There was a lot of tanned skin, muscle, and nylon, though. A lot of _yessirs_ and demonstrations of obedience, no matter what was asked. Absently, he wondered if he’d recognize any of the grasping hands in the videos as belonging to a fellow handler. That might turn into usable information.

One candidate was an engagement-type field agent, skilled at marksmanship, hand-to-hand, and a mix of acrobatics and parkour that was flashy but, Coulson determined, ultimately impractical for real life scenarios. Though he did concede, when he moved on to the man’s next video, that his flexibility did have certain other advantages. He could get his knees by his ears and his feet over his head.

The next clip showed a sparring match, a David versus Goliath set up. Coulson was expecting a display of combat prowess, but the candidate overextended on a kick and was pulled down to the mat to grapple, which, given his opponent’s superior size, was highly disadvantageous. The match was over soon after it began in a decisive loss, which was an odd thing to highlight, Coulson mused. Then the handler came into frame, and while Goliath held onto his winning submission hold, the handler peeled down the candidate’s pants and hiked up his hips. Coulson’s blood ran hot as he watched the pinned candidate get fucked into next Tuesday. Coulson had seen plenty of porn that played out the same way, but this was on another level. There was even a strained “thank you, sir,” from the candidate when the handler finished.

Coulson stared at the monitor for a long while after the video ended. He shifted in his chair and tapped his fingers. _Rational, rational, rational._ His suit pants were incredibly constrictive. He shuffled the marksman’s file to the top of the pile.

* * *

They’d stowed Clint at an abandoned farm in Pennsylvania. He was lounging insolently on a half-broken porch swing when Coulson pulled in. Sure, he might have been just plain lounging, except that he dragged his feet down as if getting up was a great inconvenience, gave Coulson a put-upon look, and said sourly, “You the new boss?” So yeah, he was insolent.

“Phil Coulson,” he introduced himself.

“Sir,” Clint said with a sort of off-handed emphasis that managed to indicate he had no interest in Coulson’s name because he’d never be calling him by it, anyway.

He knew Clint came with an attitude; he’d read the file. Experiencing it first-hand gave him a new appreciation for the handler who’d set up a sparring match way outside his weight class just to nail him to the floor. He could see the use in it.

“Agent Barton,” he started. “I understand this is not an ideal situation for you—”

“Save it. I already know.” Clint grabbed the oversized duffle bag at his feet and slung it over his shoulder. “I’m working for the good guys, right? It’s for the greater good. I’m honored.” He didn’t have the StarkTech cuffs the other conscripts had; instead he had a narrow, brushed metal collar. It looked good on him, with his tight black tee shirt and ripped jeans, though it’d look even better if he had cuffs, too.

Clint chucked his bag into the back of Coulson’s car. “Please tell me you have the key to the safe. They locked up my bow.” He looked at Coulson and caught his cool stare. For just a moment, his nonchalant mask slipped and showed the uncertainty there.

It was perfect. Just like his psych profile.

Coulson let him dangle for a moment. “Yeah, I have it,” he said, and then let that dangle there, too.

With airy sarcasm, Clint replied, “Please, sir, may I have my bow back? Do I have to suck your dick for it or something? Jesus.”

Coulson suppressed a smile.


End file.
